14
LUCA BELLANDI
I caught up with Gabriela at the top of the stairs.
“Wait.”
She kept going down.
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Beatrice came into my room without permission.”
“And lost her clothes on the way?”
“She came through the office while I was on the New York call in the other room. Said she’d spilled wine on her blouse. When I finished, I found her in the bedroom like that.”
Gabriela stopped on the landing. The sconces cast shadows under her eyes. She looked worn out from the trip.
“Why does she have clothes in your room?”
“She brought the nightgown in her bag. It wasn’t there.”
“That makes it so much better.”
“She knows the rooms. That doesn’t mean she’s allowed in. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Luca, I really don’t need to know.”
“You need to know I told her to leave.”
“I heard you.”
I came down a step, closing the distance.
“Then why are you walking away without talking to me?”
She turned on the step. I gripped the banister.
“Maybe you should sort out all these boundaries you’re so fond of imposing. Beatrice seems to have missed the memo.”
“I made them clear.”
“As clear as ours? Because I still don’t understand how you can tell me you’re not free to love anyone, then expect me to listen to explanations about a half-naked woman in your room a few hours later.”
“I’m not asking you to accept anything. I want you to know the truth.”
“The truth is, you turn me down whenever we get close, then act as if I owe you exclusivity. I don’t.”
Turn me down. It landed hard.
“I never said you did.”
“You didn’t have to. You showed me at dinner.”
“We’re not talking about Moreau.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about Beatrice either.”
She started down again. I held on to the banister to keep from reaching for her.
“There’s nothing between Beatrice and me.”
She looked back over her shoulder.
“There’s still something. Maybe it’s not sex. But it’s a past that gives her enough access to walk into your bedroom. Sort it out before you ask anything of me.”
She left. I went back to the east corridor.
Beatrice was dressed now. I handed her the bag and waited for her to leave.
Then I asked Paola to collect the rest of her luggage from the guest room and told security that any future visits from Beatrice would be confined to the work areas. I shut the private office door.
By morning, Beatrice was in Milan. She’d sent the board a twenty-three-page report on rising costs at the Palazzo delle Rose.
It blamed the lead architect directly, citing the stoppage in the west wing, the garden restoration, and additional shifts.
Along with it was notice of an extraordinary meeting that afternoon. Lorenzo called a few minutes later.
“Before you start shouting, I didn’t know.”
“Your signature’s on the notice.”
“The bylaws require two signatures. Beatrice’s figures justify a review.”
“Figures that leave out the damage we prevented.”
“Then bring your own.”
“What does she want?”
He took a moment.
“Gabriela out.”
“Why?”
“Officially, the budget. The other reason—you know that better than I do.”
I hung up.
I found Gabriela in the east wing, discussing the height of a baseboard with the interior designer. She wore safety glasses, her hair in a ponytail. At the sight of me, her expression went professional.
“Mr. Bellandi.”
“I need to speak to you.”
“In five minutes.”
“Now.”
The designer collected the samples and left. She took off her glasses.
“If this is about last night, I’ve said everything I have to say.”
“The board has called a meeting to review project costs.”
“When?”
“Three this afternoon.”
“Who prepared the analysis?”
“Beatrice.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Of course.”
“I need you to put together the figures for the west wing, the garden, and the change to the silk order.”
“Venice didn’t raise the net cost. The discount on the remaining shipments covers the extra shifts. It’s in the amendment.”
“I know.”
“So does Beatrice.”
“She left it out of the report.”
Gabriela’s face grew serious.
“Paola kept the emails. The notices went to an inbox created in the reorganization. Did the audit find anything?”
I looked up.
“The report I got blames the departmental transition.”
“Convenient, when they’re now charging the problem to my budget.”
“Send the files to my personal legal team too. I want another review.”
“You think Beatrice did it?”
“I don’t know. But I’m checking before I accept Lorenzo’s conclusion.”
She studied me. For a moment, caution displaced her anger.
“She isn’t questioning my work. She’s building a case.”
“You won’t let her.”
“Me?”
“You’ll present the figures.”
“No. You will. You’re the president. You approved every decision.”
“You want me to defend you without hearing your side?”
“I want you to take responsibility for the choices you authorized. If I go into that room, they’ll put the foreign architect on trial. The one in debt who went over budget.”
I couldn’t deny it.
“Prepare the analysis. I’ll present it.”
“It’s ready.”
She opened a file on her tablet and sent it.
“This isn’t the first time someone’s tried to force me off a project with selective figures.”
“They won’t succeed this time.”
She put her glasses back on.
“Don’t make promises for people you control less than you think.”
At three, I sat at the head of the video conference table. Twelve board members appeared on the screens. Beatrice was at the Milan headquarters, wearing white and looking nothing like a woman who’d spent the night trying to get into someone else’s bed. Lorenzo sat beside her.
“The accumulated increase exceeds eleven percent,” she began. “The lead architect has approved changes without adequate oversight and made unplanned elements, such as the garden, a spending priority.”
“The lead architect doesn’t approve the budget. I do.”
“On her recommendations.”
“On technical assessments.”
She went through the figures. I let her finish before opening Gabriela’s analysis.
I showed that stabilization had prevented estimated losses of twenty million, and the revised schedule had made up some of the delay.
I separated the estimate for the family’s private garden from hotel expenses.
That work would depend on private funding and partnerships still under negotiation.
With the Venice discount accounted for, the project’s additional cost came to less than three percent.
A British board member adjusted his glasses.
“Even so, the opening is at risk.”
“It would be at greater risk if guests fell through the floor.”
“The issue is supervision,” Beatrice said. “Ms. Duarte has no experience on this scale. Her family connection to Luca may have influenced both her appointment and the latitude she’s been given since the first problems.”
The room seemed to chill.
“Are you suggesting favoritism?”
“I’m suggesting we appoint someone more experienced to lead the work. Gabriela could stay as a conservation consultant.”
Removal dressed up as a sideways promotion. Humiliating enough to make her leave on her own.
“No.”
“The board can vote.”
“It can. And I can suspend the project if you remove the architect who found the risks every previous consultant overlooked.”
Lorenzo leaned toward the camera.
“Suspending the Palazzo would be a disproportionate response.”
“It isn’t a response. It’s a condition of proceeding.”
“Millions have been committed,” another board member reminded me.
“My millions.”
Beatrice put her hands on the table.
“Not all of them. The group answers to shareholders.”
“Then vote. But let the minutes show that if Gabriela Duarte is removed without sound technical cause, I’ll resign as executive head of the project and withdraw the personal capital I haven’t yet paid in.”
The silence crossed continents. Lorenzo’s smile vanished. Beatrice stared into the camera.
“You’d risk your position for her?”
“I’d risk my position to stop an incompetent decision.”
No one called for a vote.
When the screens went dark, Sofia came in. She’d watched from the next office.
“Effective threats,” she said. “But you’ve made her the woman a billionaire would risk his job for. Tomorrow, no one will remember the technical reports.”
“Should I have let them remove her?”
“You barely gave them time to respond to the reports. Now Beatrice will tell everyone you put your job on the line for your mistress.”
I hated how right she was.
“Gabriela’s work is impeccable.”
“I hope you’ve told her that as clearly as you told the board.”
I called Gabriela. No answer. I went to the project room.
On the empty table was an envelope with my name on it.
Inside, a resignation letter. Paola appeared in the doorway and said she’d sent Gabriela the recording, as we did with meetings about the work.
I put the letter back in the envelope and stood holding it.
“Where is she?”
“Packing. In her room.”
“Why did you accept this?”
“I didn’t. She said she won’t stay on a project where her competence is questioned because of the owner’s personal life.”
I strode down the corridor. Two open suitcases lay on Gabriela’s bed. She was folding clothes with brisk, deliberate movements. She stopped when I came in without knocking. I set the envelope on the dresser.
“You can’t just walk in.”
“You can’t just resign.”
“I can. It’s in the contract.”
I took no pleasure in hearing my own words back.
“The board didn’t remove you.”
“Because you threatened them.”
“Because it would have been the wrong decision.”
“And tomorrow? After another photograph, another rumor, another woman shows up half-naked in your room? I’m not spending months proving my work doesn’t depend on how much attention you pay me.”
“That attention hasn’t changed a single technical decision.”
“It’s changed everything around them.”
She closed one suitcase.
“I won’t let Beatrice destroy my reputation to mark her territory.”
“She has no territory.”
“Then settle it without making me the battlefield.”
“It’s settled. You stay.”
“That isn’t an order you get to give.”
I caught the suitcase handle before she could lift it off the bed.
“The Palazzo needs you.”
“Find someone with enough experience.”
“I was wrong.”
She stopped. I released the handle.
“About my experience?”
“About every reason I gave for sending you away.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“I know.”
I stepped back to the dresser.
“Don’t stay because I told you to. Stay because this project is as much yours as any Bellandi’s. Because no one in this company knows the palazzo like you do. And if the board questions your competence on personal grounds again, you won’t have to defend yourself alone.”
She watched me for a long time.
“You shouldn’t have put your job at risk.”
“That’s my decision.”
“You’re learning my lines.”
“Some of them are annoyingly useful.”
She looked at the suitcases.
“I’m not promising to stay.”
Her gaze moved to the envelope on the dresser.
“If I leave, Duarte may have to close. Don’t think I don’t know what it will cost.”
The blood drained from my face.
“Then don’t pay for an attack you didn’t provoke.”
“Staying costs something too. Every decision I make will look like a favor from you.”
“Make the technical reports public. Have the budget and schedule externally audited. I’ll remove myself from any vote on whether you stay.”
Her hand fell beside the suitcase, but she kept watching me.
“You’d do that?”
“I’ll send the proposal to the board now. Tomorrow, legal will draw up an amendment for you to review.”
She looked at the folded clothes again.
“Then promise you won’t leave tonight,” I said.
“Why?”
I came closer, every wrong answer crowding my throat. Because I couldn’t bear to watch her go out that door. Because every wall of the palazzo already held something of her. Because one night away in Venice had felt more real than whole years of my life.
“Because I need you to stay.”
Her hand rested on the clothes. I waited.